


Evil (it's just a point of view)

by Donna



Series: Slave [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Tommy Joe Ratliff - Fandom
Genre: Abuse of Power, BDSM, Blood, Character Turned Into Vampire, Corporal Punishment, Dark Magic, Dark Realm, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Love Triangles, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mental Instability, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Rape, Sexually Transmitted Disease - Freeform, Slavery, Swearing, Torture, Unrequited Love, mental/physical/sexual abuse by clergy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna/pseuds/Donna
Summary: Prequel to Slave.Damian's story--from his childhood, through his turning and his discovery of the Dark Realm. Characters from Slave (Tommy Joe, Ray, Robbie, Mikey, Andrew, Frankie, Bob, Pete, Patrick, Jay & Gee) will return, and some new characters will be introduced along the way.





	1. Just a little taste...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geminimum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geminimum/gifts).



> "Evil is a point of view-God kills indiscriminately and so shall we. For no creatures under God are as we are, none so like him, as ourselves."  
> Lestat--Interview With The Vampire
> 
>  
> 
> To those who read Slave, we meet again! Welcome back to Damian's world! And to those of you who wish to read this story before delving into Slave, strap yourselves in for a bumpy ride! As those who have already read Slave can tell you, blood, torture and dementia follow Damian everywhere he goes, and he rarely fails to make things interesting. 
> 
> As always...love and thanks go out to my sweet Geminimum for all her help choosing character names, editing, suggestions and your endless support! This story would not exist without you, and it is my gift to you. You own my heart.
> 
> ***This story (and Slave) are derived from my 10 years of therapy and recovery. Writing is my release, hence the darkness of the story and some of the character studies within. Damian is my beloved 'child'--he is my muse, my voice and my escape. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading my stories. Comments are always welcome, so don't be shy...Damian wouldn't be!  
> xo

"You'll never make me leave  
I wear this on my sleeve  
Give me a reason to believe

So give me all your poison  
and give me all your pills  
and give me all your  
hopeless hearts that make me ill

You're running after something that you'll never kill  
if this is what you want, then fire at will."  
Thank You For The Venom-My Chemical Romance

“Will you hold him still? How the fuck do you expect me…”

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it! We don’t have all night!”

“Shut your goddamn trap and help me or I’ll shove you out into the daylight…” 

“You didn’t chain him tight enough! Do you want him to escape?”

“The tubing! How the hell do you plan for the poison to get to his veins if you KEEP PINCHING OFF THE TUBING with the chains?” 

“GENTLEMEN! IF YOU PLEASE!” My bellow surprises all three of the vamps who are trying…trying, mind you...to chain me to a wooden St. Andrew’s cross. The chains are digging deeper and deeper into my skin as these three losers fight over just how tight they need to chain me in order to keep me from escaping. “Must I poison myself?” I watch these three idiot’s expressions slowly turn from stunned silence to anger to rage at my smart mouthed comments. But why would they be surprised at anything I say? I’m known for my dry wit and unending sarcasm, as well as for my charm and handsome face. In fact, any vamp that has been alive for the last 700 years or so knows who I am the second they enter the room I’m in.

You see…everyone knows me, as well they should. Because I’m not only famous—I’m infamous.

I’m Damian Lavelli—and I’m their worst nightmare. Theirs…and yours.

“I could do a better job with my eyes closed! Which torture school did you flunk out of before the Council took pity on you and gave you a job?” I can’t help myself (as usual)—I must throw in a parting shot. “Your makers should hang their heads in shame because all of you SUCK…”

The ring leader of this group of pathetic misfits throws a right-handed punch into my stomach, making me at once gasp for air. But I keep smirking through the pain, causing not only one but three jaw-breaking punches that connect in short succession. I feel a trickle of blood start down the right side of my face, the corner of my mouth broken open by a ring on the thug’s middle finger. I see another arch of a fist towards my face, which is suddenly stopped by another thug. 

“Dude…” DUDE? Whatever happened to the eloquent language of my youth? What’s this “dude” shit? Are we all cowboys now? “…cut it the fuck out! We were only to set him up and go! You never can stop yourself once you start, and if you kill him…”

“Yeah, DUDE…” I shake my head back as far as I can in an attempt to shake the hair out of my eyes. “…listen to your little friend here. Do you REALLY want the Council to know you can’t even follow basic instructions? I mean, really…” my cold eyes lock on to the thug in front of me, hidden meanings becoming suddenly all too clear in my gaze. “…do you want me to have to visit you in the future, to set things straight?” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the third thug slowly turning the dial on a large box. The metal-lined box holds the poison which, set to enter my system in slow, evenly timed drops will be delivered by the tubing that runs from the box into my left forearm. The second thug lets go of my aggressor, who is still staring at me in shock. I know he is wondering just how in the fuck would I make a threat against him, even as I am being strapped down and filled by the instrument of my doom. 

Obviously, he thinks I can be killed. What an asswipe!

This is the third time in my life that the self-absorbed, inferior, and miserable excuse of a Council has tried to kill me (or at the very least—tried to punish me severely). And here I am! Still alive and kicking (well, not exactly KICKING at the moment) and refusing to back down. Why, you ask? Because I refuse to let them win, of course! 

What fun would that be?

As the instruments of my demise taunt me a few more times and then slowly make their way to the door, they leave me to comprehend the meaning of life and death. Or should I say…MY life and (as those goons and Council believe I will soon face) my impending death. And since it seems that (as I feel another slow drop of poison enter my veins) I will be facing that impending death sooner than later—I might as well share with you the story of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Thank you to all who have decided to give this story a chance. I hope you like it (even if you do not like Damian!) 
> 
> The myth regarding the naming of Genoa is REALLY a part of its history--I didn't make it up. The rest of the chapter is from my own warped (by myself and others) mind.
> 
> ***This chapter contains the rape of a young boy. Be warned, and avoid if it will trigger you. Please take this warning seriously

Still here, friend? I CAN call you friend, right? I mean…I’m letting you in on some of my deepest, darkest secrets, am I not? That’s what you’re here for—the secrets that make me who I am, which I’ve kept to myself for so many centuries. You’re probably wondering how I became such a pompous, rude, obnoxious ass…or were you simply wondering if I will escape before the poison finishes me off? 

This may turn out to be the shortest narrative in history. Stick around and find out!

I must say, this entire experience has made me realize one thing—my life story, my ENTIRE life story—has never been told before. What a surprise, especially with my ego, huh? 

As I feel the first sting of acid hit my vein, I gasp in pain. Fuck! I’ve forgotten just how bad this shit stings! I try to move my arms and legs again before realizing my folly—the more I struggle, the tighter the chains become. Therefore, I must devise another plan to escape. But in the meantime, I shall start my tale…

 

I was born in Genoa, a port city in Italy. I recently discovered that the name of the city is said to have come from a two-headed monster named ‘Giano.’ And here I thought the only monster in Genoa was my mother!

Her name was Countess Lucrecia Maria Lavelli. I was her third born child who—according to the midwife that helped bring me into the world—would become famous one day. Little did they know how close to the truth her prediction really was…

My mother was bitch to the core. No, that’s not true. To be a bitch, you care about SOMETHING, at least yourself. The only time I ever saw my mother show any form of caring about ANYTHING was when her father died, and she found out she was listed in his will. Believe me—when the will was read and my mother didn’t receive a single penny from my grandfather, she showed her true nature. She hired a couple of thugs to kill my aunt (who inherited my grandfather’s estate and his millions), paid a judge to write a new will claiming HER the next in line to inherit, and stood at my aunt’s casket with crocodile tears clinging to her face. She never gave a shit about her father or her sister, she simply wanted wealth and prestige. She showed the same contempt to my father in secret; when he bothered to pay attention to her, she always pretended to be docile and sweet. But even he knew it was all an act—her only loves were money and cock.

My mother kept an entire stable of lovers—young, handsome and always hard. My father was away often, either running his many businesses or attending the king at court. Mother paid spies handsomely to keep her informed of my father’s whereabouts. She never cared if her children or servants saw her fucking some stud in her marriage bed, but hell if she was going to get caught by her husband! That, I overheard her tell my sister one spring day when I was six years old, would simply never do! But of course…she had the family name to think about, right? But why bother? The entire village knew she was a whore…everyone but my father, that is…

On my eighth birthday, my older sister Elena made me a birthday cake. I was so excited! I wanted to share the news with everyone! See, I was a lonely child. My first-born brother Alberto was the heir to the family fortune (whatever would be left after mother squandered most of it, that is!) as well as the family business, so he shadowed father on his daily business rounds beginning at the tender age of six. Father insisted that Alberto learn the family business early, since he expect to send him off to military school when he became 13 (a tradition of the aristocracy in my village) so he would have a duel occupation. This technique of schooling would make Alberto very valuable to whatever king was on the throne when Alberto took over the family business. 

My sister Elena spent most of her time either in the care of a tutor (she was the first girl in our family to learn to read and write) or at a ‘finishing school’ in the village. It was the place where ‘young ladies’ were taught music, deportment and the skills needed to run a large family. I dearly wanted to learn how to play the violin or the pianoforte, but my mother refused, always with a sneer on her face. “For the last time, Damian! Music learning is for LADIES! What are you, a girl?”

My sister was sweet, kind hearted…everything my mother was not. When we did manage to spend any real time together, she secretly taught me the very same music lessons she was being taught at that hoity-toity school in the village. After a year, I could master the pianoforte, and I was becoming a decent violin player.

By my eighth birthday, my mother had given birth to seven children—two sets of twins followed me in the birth order. Neither set of twins looked like my parents, and each set looked different from each other—making everyone snicker when they saw our family together. By this time, my mother’s ‘appetite for cock’ (her words, not mine) was out of control—even my father was beginning to catch on. But she never slowed down her fucking, nor did she try to hide what she was doing anymore. My father simply started staying away from home more and more—and there were rumors that he had bought another house, which he filled with young, pretty girls from a neighboring village.

My mother became more and more distant from her children over time, treating them as if we were simply a bother to her, something that she could easily ignore as you would obnoxious flies on a summer’s day. She had plenty of nannies and wet nurses to care for us children, so why should she care if any of us became sick or missed her? She was totally apathetic to us all. But me? I was an entirely different case altogether. 

Lucrecia Maria Lavelli hated my guts…and she went out of her way to prove it, every single chance she had. 

I never understood why she hated me. She never explained herself, to me. Elena and Alberto would give me sad glances when mother would push me away, as if to say they were sorry. Why should they be sorry? They were not physically shoved out of the way when mother walked by them, or slapped when they tried to talk to her. She simply ignored them. But me? She physically and verbally lashed out at me every chance she had. Her insults would ring through my brain every single night I laid my head down on my pillow, my body sore from the pushes and punches she gave me during the day. The older I got, the worse the abuse became—what started out as simple slaps and orders to go away, turned into kicks and punches every time we were in the same room. I never knew when she would verbally lash out, her words harsher than her physical abuse. I was a disappointment, a rogue, a devil. I should’ve never been born, should’ve been aborted, should be killed, abandoned—she constantly told me I made her sick simply by seeing my face. 

My main reaction to all of this? Confusion, of course. I was her child, and even though I knew from a young age that she preferred the hard bodies she rode every day to her own son, her desire to push me away made me want to be with her more and more all the time. I WANTED to hear from her that I was important, that I mattered…that I was loved. I craved love like the drowning crave air. I wanted to feel her arms around me so badly, I wanted to hear she was proud of me.

I would’ve died for a kind word from her. I loved her as much as I grew to hate her later in life.

Anyways…where was I? Oh yes! 

On the morning of my eighth birthday, my nanny woke me earlier than usual. When I complained that it was my special day and that I wanted to spend it sleeping in, she told me to stop complaining and hurry up out of bed. When I pouted she informed me that Elena had arrived the night before from school to start my special day with my favorite custard cake. I smiled as I threw back my covers, my mother’s cold voice booming down the hall as she walked past my room towards hers. “Get your lazy ass out of bed, Damian! I raised you better than to lay around all day!” 

Regardless of my mother’s words, I wanted to run to her and share my good news. A cake! The last time I ate custard cake was almost two years ago, at a picnic in the village. 

I ran down the hall and skidded to a halt just inside mother’s room. Before I could call out to mother that there was birthday cake in the kitchen, I noticed a man standing at the foot of my mother’s bed. My mother was nowhere to be seen.

As soon as the young man noticed me, he took a few steps towards me, his head cocked to the side as if examining me carefully. I once again looked around the room, my gaze landing everywhere but at the blonde standing in front of me. The young man (somewhere around 18 or 19 years old) walked slowly towards me until he was close enough that I could smell brandy on his breath. While he did not seem extremely intoxicated, his lazy smile and lax demeanor made me realize that he was not completely sober, either.

“You just missed your mother. She decided to visit a friend in the village.” I knew what he was referring to—my mother had no friends. What he really was saying was that mother had set out to select some more young studs for the upcoming week, hoping to find someone she had yet to sleep with. Considering her track record? That task would be close to impossible…

“Oh! Ah…ok” I stutter out, immediately turning back towards the doorway. I was anxious to get to my cake…and get from the young blonde. But before I can make it to the doorway, he reached around me and grabbed the door, slamming it shut and locking it quickly. I try to push his arm out of the way to get to the lock but, in a move that proved his recent military training, he easily flipped me around and slammed me backwards into the wall. I began to struggle and call out, but he quickly placed a hand over my mouth, his entire body pushing forward to keep me pinned against the wall.

“Is that any way for a Lavelli to behave?” he chides me, his free hand softly stroking the side of my neck and left arm. “You must be Damian. Your mother has told me all about you!” His tone made me stop struggling for a moment, a look of what can only be labeled as confusion covering my face. Why in the hell would my mother be talking to one of her lovers about me, when she obviously hated me so badly?

Easily reading my expression, the blonde laughed. “Oh yes, little Lord…your mother had LOTS to say about you!!!” His hand pushed harder against my mouth as his other hand slowly traveled from the side of my neck down the front of my throat. The blonde then moved back a half-step so his hand began a slow path across my chest, pausing at a nipple. 

As his nails dug a brief path across my nipple, it became erect instantly. The blonde leaned forward slightly, his tongue following the very path his hand just made on my body. I felt a quick stab of pain as he bit my nipple through my night shirt before pulling back again. “Your mother told me that you like boys, little Lord.” My eyes widened in shock, which made the blonde throw back his head, his laughter filling the room. “I told her that you were too young to know the ways of the world, but she laughed and said that seeing her with young men tightened your pants.” The blonde’s fingertips continue their path down my body to the waistband of my sleep pants. “I wonder…if I touched you, little Lord…” The blonde smirked as he slid a finger under the waistband of my pants, my breathing becoming labored and strained. “…would you fight me, or simply…” 

Slender fingers reach in with a boldness that caused my heart to race, my cock tingling at the first ghost-like touch. I began to panic—I pushed against the arm that pinned my upper body to the wall, causing the blonde’s hand to clench my mouth so tight I feared my lips would crack at the corners. I attempted to kick the blonde’s leg with my foot, to no avail. My molester was much stronger than I, so much so that there was little I could do to dislodge him. 

The hand in my sleep pants slides in even further, and seconds later my cock is engulfed in a large hand. I was a young boy—it only took a few seconds for my cock to become fully erect.

“Ah, she was right!” The blonde smirked at me once again as I attempted to shake my head against his words. “Oh, don’t try to deny it, little Lord! When I was around your age, my uncle attempted to touch me, the same way I am touching you.” I feel the blonde’s hand slowly begin to slide up and down my cock, only pausing to collect in the palm of his hand the pre-come that had pooled at the head of my cock. “I didn’t even get half-hard! I was repulsed that a man wanted to touch my cock!” The blonde began to pump my cock faster, his words becoming more breathless as I began to gasp for air. “I knew, even at that young age, that I LOVED tits! I did everything I could to touch every pair I got near. Hell…” I couldn’t help myself—I began quietly moaning in rhythm with the pace of his hand. It felt so fucking good! “…I even grabbed my mother’s tits when I got a chance! And you?” The blonde pressed his body forward even closer, his hand a blur on my cock, my balls beginning to tighten. The blonde leaned his head forward until he was whispering in my ear. “Moaning as I stroke your cock! Maybe you’d like this, too…” 

The hand over my mouth is suddenly jerked away, quickly replaced by the blonde’s lips. He moves his free hand downward until it reaches my nipple, squeezing and scratching it sharply until I make a pained noise deep in my throat. The blonde then moves his hand to the other nipple, treating it the same way as his tongue pushes its way down into my mouth. I instinctively push my lower body forward when I feel the blonde’s cock pushing against my hip.

I feel the room begin to spin as the hand on my cock twists sharply on an upward stroke. My balls begin to draw up against my body as I begin to come, the liquid shooting out and landing on the blonde’s hand and forearm. I hear him make a triumphant noise deep in his chest as his kiss deepens, our teeth clashing together briefly. I feel the hand on my cock begin to slow down, to drawl out the pleasure I’m feeling. Instinctively I know that my rapist wants me to enjoy my first orgasm as much as possible. He wants me to look back at my first sexual experience with a guy and see it as a pleasant experience, instead of what it really is…rape.

I whimper when my cock becomes oversensitive, and the blonde slowly pulls his hand out of my pants, his lips still on mine. It takes me a moment to realize that the blonde has pulled his entire body away from mine, except for his lips. My very next thoughts are full of surprise and…embarrassment. 

I’m no longer being held down, I’m returning the blonde’s kiss with as much passion as he is kissing me with, I was just made to come by a male and I…enjoyed it! 

Do I really prefer boys? Am I…gay?

I feel his tongue lick my bottom lip as he backs away from me, brown eyes locking onto mine as the smirk returns to his lips. Before I can form words or think to scream, come covered fingertip briefly rest on my bottom lip before they are swiftly shoved into my mouth. I struggle at the press of four fingertips against the back of my tongue, the taste of my come bitter.

“That’s it, little Lord. Enjoy your first taste of come.” His eyes twinkle as he begins to slowly thrust his fingers in and out of my mouth. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll make sure you get plenty…”

“That’s NOT going to happen, Thomas!” I see the blonde’s shoulders freeze, his expression morphing from one of vicious delight to fear in mere seconds. Thomas (a name that will haunt my every moment for the rest of my natural and unnatural life) quickly pulls his fingers from my mouth, the motion causing my teeth to instantly ache. I feel his body move away from mine, my body instantly becoming chilled as I turn my attention to an open door directly across from us. 

In the doorway of the room stands my mother…and father.

“Get the fuck away from my son, you pervert!” My father lunges at Thomas, a dagger in his hand. I hear Thomas gasp in pain as the dagger is lodged in his chest, the event blocked from my view due to my mother stepping into my line of vision. Her open palm slaps my face repeatedly from side to side as her cold voice reaches my ears. 

“DAMIAN! You sick, demented little fag! I KNEW you liked dick, the way you looked at every male you passed gave you away! YOU’RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL!”

“Mother, PLEASE!” My head snapped back and forth under the force of my mother’s hand, until my father’s face appeared behind my mother’s shoulder.

“Lucrecia! Stop it!” My father grabs at my mother’s arms but she jerks away from him, her voice rising higher and higher. “I TOLD you! I told you he is a faggot! You refused to believe me, and now my favorite piece of ass is dead! I WANT HIM OUT OF THE HOUSE! I WANT HIM DEAD!!!!” My mother glares at me one more time before turning on her heel, stepping around my father and storming out of the room.

My father stares at me for a silent moment before his fist connects first with my jaw, then my stomach. Tears fill my eyes as I hear Tommy take his last breath, my father’s fists continuing to slam into my body. I hear my father yell for a slave as my body slowly slides down the wall, to land in a heap at my father’s feet.

As darkness finally takes me under I hear my father growl out to the slave in the doorway “Get the carriage! Dump this faggot off at the monastery and then return and take out the trash …”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I apologize for my long absence. 
> 
> The X in the barn is called a St. Andrew's cross, just for clarification. 
> 
> This chapter was not edited, so please forgive any mistakes.

The next thing I remember, one of our servants is yanking me out of my father’s carriage by my wrist. As my body hits the ground I hear a voice quietly ask “What do we have here, my son?” My body has landed at the feet of a tall, muscular monk with long flowing grey hair and black robes (think of him as a modern day Gandalf from Lord of the Rings, with a body more along the lines of Dwayne Johnson, Jean-Claude Van Damme or Vin Diesel.) 

“This here’s Damian Lavelli, Father.” My vision swims as the servant and the monk roughly grab my arms and yank me to my feet. “His parents have thrown him out for liking men. I was ordered to bring him to you.” 

“Well, young man, that’s quite a sin!” It may be that the extreme pain running through my body is playing tricks on my hearing—I swear that the monk speaking to me is trying his hardest not to chuckle. “I’m sure Monsignor will want to see him straight away. Help me take him in, will you?”

In front of us looms a bleak looking building made of dark stone. Men in long black robes are silently moving around the building, carrying out a variety of tasks. As we move past them, their eyes move over my body as if taking inventory…

My father’s servant and the monk practically drag me through the monastery’s front doors. From what little I can see of the interior, there is little difference to distinguish it from the exterior—dark walls, with the only decoration consisting of wooden crosses of different sizes lining the walls. The closest neighbor to the monastery is around three miles away, which gives it an almost eerie feeling of seclusion and silence.

As silent as the grave.

That is the saying that my mind keeps repeating, a mantra against fear, loneliness, pain, sadness. I want my sister, I want my brother. I want my birthday cake. I want that boy to be alive again. I want my parents to show up at the front door, laughing and joking, saying that this is all a game. I want to go home.

Silent as the grave.

I am roughly shoved onto a wooden straight back chair in the corner of the entry hall before the monk makes his exit, commenting over his shoulder “I will tell the Monsignor he is here” as he leaves. Silence shortly surrounds us as I struggle to keep my tears from falling.

I startle as a hand slaps down hard on my arm. The servant (looming over me, a leer on his face) snickers “You’re in for it now, boy! That fuck boy of the Misses’ brought you down a peg or two, didn’t e’! You think that hand job was bad, wait ‘til the monks get their slimy dicks in your tight little bum! This place is the most perverted monastery in Italy!” I hear laughter from outside the entrance and look up as three monks move into the doorway, smirks on their faces. Chills shoot down my spine as I hear the servant’s echoing laughter as one of the monks looks longingly at me, the same way a thirsty man would look at a well on a hot summer’s day. 

My 8-year-old mind is scrambling to look for another reason for the look, for the attention. Am I simply seeing things, allowing my fear to cloud my judgement? Could there be something else going on here, something that I am missing? I mean…I AM in a house of God, right? I should be safe here, correct? Or is the servant telling me the truth? Unfortunately, I am about to find out…

The monk suddenly returns with a gleeful smirk on his face. As he easily slings me over his left shoulder, he grunts to the servant “Tell your master that Monsignor will remove his sins for a tribute of 200 gold coins a year. His sins…” (here the monk pauses for emphasis) “…and the sins of the rest of the Lavelli clan.” 

Looking back on it now as an adult, I know that this seemingly innocent phrase is actually a veiled threat. The monk’s demand for money is for my lodgings, my food, as well as the chore of raising an 8-year-old boy to adulthood. But there is more to it than that, sweeties! No, the threat is that, should my father refuse to pay the “tribute,” the Monsignor would make sure that the king was aware of the goings on within the Lavelli family. And I mean ALL of it—infidelity, murders, intrigue…even a rumor (that I heard after I left the monastery) that my father was involved in a plot to overthrow the king.

Well played, Monsignor…well played, indeed!

I hear the servant mumble some nonsense about how he is sure that my father will gladly make a payment soon. The monk mumbles back “See that he does” as he carries me from the room, down several long dark hallways (the entire time in which I try desperately to not throw up on the backs of his thighs) with me staring upside down at dark walls and wooden floors until he stops in front of a red door. I hear him knock as he attempts to shift me on his shoulder, no doubt trying to find a more comfortable hold on me. 

“Come in.”

The light from dozens of candles practically blinds me. As my eyes slowly adjust to the light, the words that instantly comes to mind as I attempt to take in my surroundings is “sinfully decadent.” 

The walls are stained a deep red, the very color of blood. A thick red and black Oriental carpet covers the floor. Matching tapestries hang on the walls. Heavy wooden furniture, identical to the splendor of the home I have left behind, gives the impression that you are in the midst of royalty. 

Come to think about it…I guess I was! At this time in history, religious men in Italy were second only to the King and God himself…if he even exists, that is. God, that is…  
“Drop him, Father Adrian.”

The breath leaves my small body as I am once again dropped face first to the floor. Why have I become no better than luggage? I come from nobility; I should not be treated like this! What is wrong with these people?

In front of my eyes are two black leather boots, highly polished and topped with white robes lined in fur. I grunt out as I instantly feel something hard land across the center of my back.

“On your knees, boy!” Father Adrian orders. “Keep your eyes down, your back straight!” My dazed brain fails to respond immediately to the order. I feel another sharp smack crisscrossing the first hit. A hand then swiftly tightens around my slim upper arm, yanking me up off the floor to face the man in front of me as if I were a rag doll. “UP!” I grunt again as I feel fingers tighten in my shoulder length hair. “You will learn to follow orders quickly and without complaint!” The hand in my hair then yanks my head back sharply, tears immediately filling my eyes. Through my tears, I cannot help but stare into the face of this monster for the first time.

Monsignor Bianchi smiles down at me with the same bemused angelic expression worn by cherubs in church frescoes throughout Italy. However, his angelic smile was contradictory to the coldness found within his eyes. Bianchi’s eyes were coal black, uncaring. Staring down at me as he was, he gave me the same glare that a tiger gives seconds before it devours its prey. I felt a shiver travel down my spine, knowing that I may be standing in a monastery, but I was staring into the very eyes of the devil himself.

Monsignor Bianchi visited my family home every spring on his yearly pilgrimage to court. My mother would demand that my siblings and I stay in our rooms, in the care of our nannies and out of sight. The last thing she wanted to present to the Monsignor was a gaggle of snot nosed kids. 

Monsignor’s free hand slashes downward, connecting with my face with enough force to remove the rest of the air from my lungs. Even though I saw the hand approaching my face, I could not turn my face away, the fingers twisting in my long hair ensuring my pacification. 

I try to focus on the words that Father Adrian is saying to me, but my ears won’t stop ringing long enough. Even my own mother never hit me that hard!

Monsignor realizes after a few minutes that I am no longer paying attention. An evil grin crosses his face as he raises his hand in a “stop” pose. “Father Adrian, thank you for informing our new arrival of the rules.” I rock back on my knees as the fingers in my hair loosen and move away. “Now Damian, I want you to recite the rules that you were just taught.” 

Panic overtakes me. Rules? What rules? Did I hear any rules? I hear Father Adrian softly snicker next to me as I glance from him to the Monsignor. What do I do now? What is going to happen to me?

Monsignor Bianchi sighs his displeasure. “I should have known we would have problems with you, right from the start!” Monsignor and Father exchange an amused glance, and I hear Father Adrian laugh. “I bet he is too busy thinking about what is under your robe, Monsignor!” 

Monsignor shoots Father Adrian a look of mock horror as my face turns red with embarrassment. “Father! I’m sure the boy isn’t THAT far deranged with sin!” As my head spins with pain, I watch Monsignor smirk with delight as an evil idea begins to take form. “Bring him along.” 

Father grabs my arm and practically drags me out into the hallway. We follow Monsignor through a double set of doors to a path that leads to a small barn at the back of the property. Suddenly a bell begins to ring from a small shed next to the monastery. As we pass them, monks lay down their gardening tools or their baskets. Many bow to Monsignor as he passes them, while boys of all ages simply look down at the ground in respect. 

Monsignor takes the arm of a young friar, pulling him forward so he can whisper a few words in his ear. The friar’s eyes connect with mine instantly, and a slight smirk raises his lips. Monsignor then taps his fingers on the friar’s arm, sending him into immediate action. The friar bellows out “Inside, boys! Report to Father Angelus IMMEDIATELY!” as he falls into line behind us.

Father pulls me through the double barn doors, which are then immediately closed behind us. I expected to see horses, farm equipment, stalls—typical barn ‘stuff.’ Oh no, not this barn! Ok, so there WAS hay, but that is as far as ‘typical’ could take you!

There was a long wooden table, a wooden X in the corner, a bedstead with a lumpy hay-stuffed mattress on top. Each had leather straps attached to them. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see different size paddles and buggy whips hanging against one wall.

Monsignor grabs my hair in a tight grip as Father finally releases my arm. My head is pulled back sharply so I am once again looking into Monsignor’s dark eyes. “Damian, we are going to play a little game with you.” He drags me to the wooden X in the corner, pushes me forward until my nose scrapes the wood. Monsignor steps behind me, close enough to my trembling body that I can feel the fur of his robes brushing against my skin. 

I begin to scream as multiple hands rip my clothes from my body. The friar instantly appears next to me, his hand reaching down until it clamps tightly across my mouth. Once I am naked, the friar continues to muffle my screams as Father Adrian straps my arms and legs to the cross with rope. 

Monsignor hands the friar a long, thick piece of cloth with a large knot in the middle. The friar pushes the knot into my mouth and laughs at my reaction. It tastes rancid, proof that I am not the only boy that has suffered at the hands of these devils. The remainder of the cloth is wound tightly around the bottom half of my head and then tied in the back.

Once rendered defenseless, Monsignor moves forward to stand on the other side of the friar, who is now softly running his fingertips over my bare arm and shoulder. “Damian, I would like to present friar Antony. He has been with us for three years now. One more year and he will move into the rank of Father.” The Monsignor introduces me to the friar with the same tone as if he were introducing a king to a courtier at a social.

Are all these people mad?

I try to scream once again but little sound makes it past the cloth. The friar leans down until his lips brush my ear. “No one can hear you, Damian. And even if they could, no one would come to your rescue. You see, no one cares about you anymore. You belong to us-not your family, nor even God. No one wants you. No one cares. You are ours to do with as we please." I feel a hand grab the base of my cock and squeeze tightly before letting go of me. "And we look forward to breaking you..."


End file.
